


Fields of a Hero

by MONANIK



Series: Places on Earth [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abused Lance (Voltron), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Captivity, Eventual Romance, Healing, Homesick Lance (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Kidnapping, Lance (Voltron) Angst, M/M, Orphan Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-19 12:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18135899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: “Look, you need to take it slow. It’s been a while since you had anything normal to eat, much less a full meal.” He reasoned, a hand scratching the back of his neck where stray strands tickled.“If you eat too fast after so long, you’ll end up throwing it right back up and hurting yourself in the process. Give your body time to adjust.”“Sorry.”“There’s nothing to be sorr…” he sighed, “Forget it.”After five years of captivity, Lance is finally saved.Saved by the same person who once held him captive.Five years ago, a young boy was kidnapped, forced to live through what soon became a living nighmare. But he befriended a reccuring visitor with the deepest amethyts and the most gentle hands...And this is the story of his growth and healing, the rebuilding of his once-life.This is the story of Lance's disappearance.





	1. Superhero

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of "in the Cell of a Clown".  
> I recommend reading that first before you start this one!
> 
> All the positive feedback it got inspired me to make a well needed part two!  
> This won't be a long series, a few chapters at most, and I hope to update at least once a week.

_Superhero, 'cause I can't save myself—_  
_Much less somebody else, so I gotta do better._

_…caught in a cycle, you'll never get out._  
_Afraid of your shadow and living in doubt._  
_But this isn't over, it's only begun,_  
_and there is no honor in giving it all up._

 

* * *

 

 

It was like watching a starved animal; the way he shoveled spoonfulls right down his throat with no mind to his health. He turned and made a B-line for the small booth.

“Woah! Woah! Slow down buddy!” he shrieked as he got closer, hands out as if to stop the aggressive shoveling himself.

Blue eyes could only stare in confusion, soaked in fright, so he sighed and slumped down in his seat. He tried for something gentler:

“Look, you need to take it slow. It’s been a while since you had anything _normal_ to eat, much less a full meal.” He reasoned, a hand scratching the back of his neck where stray strands tickled.

“If you eat too fast after so long, you’ll end up throwing it right back up and hurting yourself in the process. Give your body time to adjust.”

“Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorr…” he sighed, “Forget it.”

 

The past day was a complete blur of all kinds of emotions, emotions which ran circles in his head so much they left a purple trail below a pair of eyes just as violet. Only that they’ve lost part of their fire, their shine, to what he’d done.

All it took was one hard shove.

And he ended a life.

It made him realize something: how life is such a careful, fragile thing. We love to pose and puff our chests, to venture and experience and try with no count for how much _anything_ and _everything_ can and will, eventually, kill us.

What happened before he ran into the cellar and grabbed a frightened, blue boy—whose life had been stolen from him in its purest fragility—is a prime example of that.

All it took was one hard shove, and he toppled over the railing, and fell, fell, fell—and when he looked down there, below an antique chandelier, he laid twisted and bent. His neck had snapped, and his skull had cracked, and where his arm had been behind him before the fall it was now twisted and dislocated below a swollen, foul body.

It took so little. It was so easy. He could almost see the appeal in it. _Almost._

If only it weren’t for the guilt. Oh, the unwavering guilt which pulled his head down-under every hour of the day. Every breath felt labored, every move heavy, but then he looked at _him_ , and suddenly it all made sense.

 _Ah, yes._ He thought. _That’s why I did it, I remember._

Because right there, opposite him, sat a tortured soul, a stretch of caramel skin; broken, torn, and battered. There sat a pair of beautiful blue eyes; forever drowned in terror, pain. And two soft hands which shook so violently they made the flimsy one dollar-burger seem as though made of pure lead.

It was tragic in a bitter, deprecating way, and he blamed himself for it every time he looked at him.

_I could have prevented it. I could have prevented it. I could have prevented it. I could have—_

“Are you angry at me?”

He had to blink to re-gain his stability. Only then did he realize the frown he’d been sporting. With a heavy breath he willed his facial muscles to relax.

“Of course not,” he said, and tried for a smile, “Why would I be angry at you?”

Lance only dropped his unsteady gaze, plastered it to his quivering knuckles, and then muttered so quietly he could barely hear it:

“Because I ruined your life.”

 

Thunder roared somewhere over the open land outside, and the wind which now blew with vigor out their window in the small diner felt as real as the coldness of the silence that fell. It made the howling outside all the more obvious, all the more painful.

His brain only then caught on, realized that Lance was expecting— _needing_ —a reply.

“Of— _of course_ you didn’t.” he said, “What could possibly make you—you’re not the problem, Lance! You didn’t ruin anything! If anyone ruined anyone’s life, it was _me!_ I did this to you! I held you there when I could have helped you…” But his voice wavered and gave out, choked on a sob.

Lance’s eyes filled with tears, his food forgotten, “No way! You… if it weren’t for you, I would have been dead by now. You had your own issues, your own reasons—”

“That’s still not an excuse.” He cut off, “Scott was sick, I was not. I could have done something—anything! Fuck, I could have called the police on the bastard! I could have done so much, but I didn’t.” he rasped, head now snugly nestled in his arms where they lay crossed over each other on the wooden table, dirtied with ketchup and food and what-nots.

He felt miserable. Still, he willed his thoughts back to the boy before him, who sat frightened in his seat, with hot tears running down bruised skin. _Do it for him,_ he thought, because if nothing else, at the end of the road he’d look back and see him there. Out in the open, running through fields of everything he’s lost, befriending animals and eating garlic-knots and hugging his mother.

So, he pulled his head up, and mentally reprimanded himself for wavering in the presence of someone who’d lost everything due to his incompetence.

_Grow up already!_

He looked at him, _really_ looked at him, “I’m sorry.” He said, then, “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Lance only nodded wordlessly, attention back on his cold burger.

His hands still shook, his tears still ran, and the thunder still roared—but all around, and inside his brain, was nothing but silence.

He’d silenced a boy who once loved to speak.


	2. Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is left wondering what is happening. To him, to the world, to the place where they decide to spend the nigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shouldn't have to say this but, for obvious reasons, this whole thing is a giant trigger warning.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> [Chapter song: Billie Eilish ft. Khalid -- Lovely]

Blooming fields that stretched into eternity—it seemed, at least—finally gave way to the bustling outskirts of a larger city. They were getting close, he could tell, for the empty lands became blocky cement-buildings, gray and dull and lifeless in their stiffness. It was much like a punch to the gut, to see the city he grew up in again after so many years. Nothing had changed. Everything was how he had forcedly left it.

Next to him, his once-ago captor sighed for the millionth time, and with it came a slumping of heavy, broad-set shoulders.

“I really should just…” he started, “…turn myself in.” he said, “One of us has to. It would be unfair to you otherwise, and since Scott is out of the picture...”

The lump of melancholy in his throat disintegrated into something foul and dusty and it stuck to the insides of his throat, his lungs. Everything seemed blurry for a moment, before panic awoke some clarity in him.

“No, please…” he began, but his words stuck to his teeth like leeches. He couldn’t speak. Keith sighed again.

“I know, I know…” his hand rose to anxiously ruffle through locks of pitch-black hair that stood up in every direction. The soft squeak of his leather jacket grounded him. “Not yet, at least. Maybe when you decide it’s time.” He finished.

They turned right at the next intersection and stopped further down the street in front of an old, abandoned looking four-story building covered in windows. A wooden, moldy sign that read _‘Smith’s Inns’_ hung crookedly in front of the small entrance where wines were steadily ascending its brick walls. A metallic gate stood open right in front of the main entrance. The tall, wooden door behind it was white and chipped and matched the old windows. He didn’t understand what the gate was for, what of value the decrepit building had to protect.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s late and you’ve been snoozing on and off all day. I thought your neck must hurt and that you may want some rest and a place to maybe reach out… to your folks…” he trailed off, suddenly vary of every word, and broke the steady eye-contact he’d managed to keep. Right. His parents. He would see them again...

“Just, look…” a sigh, “It’s up to you, is what I’m trying to say. They said they’d give me a room for cheap since I know the people that work here, and…”

Without finishing his sentence, he left room for him to speak. But he had nothing to say. All he could think about was the metallic gate, and why it was there. Why a heavy lock still hung from its vertical bars which glimmered in the faint city-light. He swallowed and looked at the space between their feet.

“It—it’s fine.”

And so, they entered, and as they did dread settled heavily in his stomach, and every creak of the floorboards beneath his feet only kept screaming to him their unavoidable deceit if he would ever need to flee. If he needed to hide, to run. He matched Keith’s steady, quiet footsteps and willed his erratic breathing to calm. It was OK. Keith was here. Everything was OK.

He counted his footsteps. One, two, three, four…

Suddenly, the black army boots stopped in their tracks and turned to the left. Lance’s gaze followed until it slowly crept up the torn edge of a reception. Behind it was a man, tall even when bent over the other way, rummaging through folders and drawers where papers and letters lay strewn about haphazardly and without care.

Keith cleared his throat loudly, his right hand firmly shoved down a worn jean-pocket. At the sound the man before them straightened sharply, and with the movement managed to ram his head into the shelf above, successfully knocking off a vase with a wilting flower and a bundle of letters along the way. It all fell to the floor and scattered around his feet. The sound made Lance jump, he was certain the vase would break, and the man would get angry at them, so he reflexively grabbed onto Keith’s jacket and held on tightly, partially hidden behind him.

“Quiznack!” the unfortunate man grumbled incoherently before turning to face them fully, this time mindful of his inches.

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a change of heart, now far more chipper about the awkward encounter. A bright ginger mustache had been neatly kept and styled so that its pointy ends mimicked a wide and bright smile. Bushy, equally as vibrant eyebrows shot up his forehead, above which his hair had been combed and slicked back. A single lump had fallen out of array and was wiggling along with his movements. The small, round glasses gave him an antique look; something like a grandfather with a never-ending supply of stories. In every crease of his skin was a tale; for the lines intertwined each other like roads on a map. Broad shoulders and a small waist were only accentuated by the receptionist’s classy, old-school attire. A bright blue vest hugged his figure, shimmering in embroidered golden swirls and patterns, and beneath it a black button-up and a golden tie complimented the look. Out of the pocket of his black plaid trousers hung a golden chain, presumably leading to a mechanical pocket watch.

“Keith, my boy!” he said and gestured openly with his arms spread wide and his lips stretched into a grin so wide Lance could almost hear his skin creak with the movement. His eyes crinkled along.

“Coran.” Keith laughed, not in the least surprised by his crazy antics, “I called earlier…”

“Ah, yes, of course! A room, a room! Don’t fret, boy. I’ve got the perfect accommodation for my all-time favorite!” he cheered happily and wobbled his way around and through the mess. He bent down once more, mumbling nonsense to himself, before fishing out a key hanging off a ring with a card that read _145_. “I hope this suits your tastes. Cleaned it meself!” he said and handed Keith the clumsily large thing.

“Breakfast starts at six and finishes around eleven! If there is anything else feel free to come find me!”

Coran spoke solely in exclamations and wide gestures, and the antics of it made a once easily excited and sociable Lance so tired he could feel his joints crack and groan with every move. _When had he lost himself like this? Why wasn’t he excited about this interesting person? Why were his hands still trembling with fright?_

_He won’t hurt you. Keith is here. It’s OK._

As they made their way through the dimly lit corridor, Lance finally willed his eyes to stay in front of him rather than on the moldy, carpeted floor below their feet. To his surprise, the place was quite well kept inside. On the walls on every side of them hung antiques and paintings. Shelfs were in every nook and cranny, books laid strewn just about everywhere, candles flickered their lights from all directions, and everywhere the eye could reach were various potted flowers and greens. Dark curtains partially covered the large, old windows, and rusty chandeliers had been hung evenly spaced down the corridor.

Their footsteps on the carpeted floor were so quiet they were barely noticeable even to his own, hyper-focused ears. It was good, on one hand. On the other it meant someone could creep up on them without any trouble, without them noticing.

He suddenly missed the deceit of the creaky hardwood.

_They’d wrap their arm around his neck and pull him back, back, away from Keith’s protecting form, and he’d fall into a foul embrace and—_

Warmth framed his quivering shoulders, and the faint scent of firewood and some rosy-perfume and cigarettes swallowed him in its comfort. Keith’s arms tugged him close to his firm chest, below which a healthy heart thudded gently and so slowly you’d be fooled into thinking it had stopped every time you tried to listen for it. He counted its thuds.

_One, two, three, four, five, six…_

Keith’s hand ran up and down his nape before settling in the ruffled nest of chestnut strands atop his head where calloused but gentle, strong fingers scratched gently at his scalp until his breathing evened out and his shoulders lost some of their stiffness.

_Seven, eight…_

On an antique radio somewhere to the left of him—he’d noted—played a song, gently, as it bounced its melody off the thick walls around them.

 _Oh, I hope someday I'll make it out of here_  
_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years_

 _Nine…_ his body felt warm pressed to his. His hair tickled the inside of his ear and sent shivers down his spine. His other hand was rubbing circles on his back as they swayed gently to the rhythm of the music.

 _Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near_  
_Wanna feel alive, outside I can fight my fear_

A hiccupping breath cracked the seams of his heart and found its way out of his lungs. His whole body twitched against Keith’s. His grip never loosened, his arms never left him, hid hands kept carving circles into his skin. Outside, the patter of rain haunted them again as it ran down the blurry glass. Keith smelled like flowers and smoke and late nights out by the beach.

 _Isn't it lovely, all alone?_  
_Heart made of glass, my mind of stone_

Coran’s gentle rustling somewhere behind them reached his tired ears. He was cleaning up the mess, the broken glass with the wilting flower in it, and Lance couldn’t help but feel for it. He felt like that. Keith felt like comfort. His breathing was even, and a heavy exhale ghosted over his right shoulder.

 _Tear me to pieces, skin to bone_  
_Hello, welcome home_

Everything would be OK. He was safe now. He was OK. It would be OK, he realized, and fell into comforting darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do leave a comment, I love reading what you guys have to say!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter song is:  
> Superhero by Falling in Reverse


End file.
